


Truth is Overrated

by ElmiDol



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens, Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Body Dysphoria, Body Hair, Consensual Choking, Dark fic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, F/M, Kylo is a bit of an ass, Low Self-Esteem, Mentions of Sex, Minor Death Ideation, More of an unhealthy arrangement, Purge Fic, Self-Loathing, Some mentions of blood, Sort Of, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Habits, Verbal Abuse, body image issues, emotional purging, mentions of face fucking, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 00:09:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17293937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElmiDol/pseuds/ElmiDol
Summary: Nothing was good enough. You did not need Kylo Ren to tell you that. He was a voice for your thoughts. People telling you to not say them about yourself. To have a better self-image, as though that was something that would magically happen with the snap of two fingers.The truth? Their opinions really didn't matter.





	Truth is Overrated

**Truth is Overrated**

 

When you are with him, the truth doesn’t matter. Because, honestly? The truth hurt. The relationship was in no way about body worship. Not from him. From you? On your part, you did find his body astoundingly, arousingly fit. The toned muscles that flexed with every undulation. His hardness inside of you. Large. So full. It stole your breath away, although not always in a pleasurable manner. Sometimes it hurt. Sometimes you would lie there and take it, because, really, it wasn’t so bad. If you were to stop him then it would be. Then he _would_ remind you of the truth.

 

There are so many more people more attractive than you. He could have anyone he wanted. Someone who didn’t have body hair where it shouldn’t be so long or dark. The truth with that: you hated your breasts. At one point, you hated them because they were small. And then you cowered from the fact that, though they grew, they were still a disappointment. One larger than the other. Not completely noticeable unless someone was really looking for a difference. Like you did.

 

Oh, you hated mirrors and pictures. Avoided cameras. Turned reflective surfaces so that you couldn’t see yourself. You did not own a mirror except for in the refresher; even that was present solely due to it being shared and mandatory.

 

The hair. You had tried many things. Leaving it alone. Hormonal suppressants. In despair, plucking it out only for it to grow back, at times incorrectly. Those swollen red bumps. Maker, you felt disgusting. As time went on, there were more. They encircled your areolas and trailed down from your belly button. You wore looser, baggier clothing when you could get away with it. Nothing that would ride up and show what you were attempting to conceal.

 

There were some people who had called you pretty. They told you that you were beautiful. The truth in that? Their opinions hardly mattered. You would have traded bodies with them in an instant.

 

Except for when he had you on the bed or bent over a desk. Or, those rare occasions, when he had his helmet over your head so that he did not have to look at your face. He was more gentle with you then in the physical sense. Verbally he was just as abusive as usual. Scoffs. Toying with any missed hairs; he would pinch them then pull back, yanking them out. The jolt of pain coupled with his thumb on your clit trained your body to react to his mistreatment of you.

 

The truth was that you wanted him to find you attractive, however knew that he never would. It was, strangely enough, why you stayed there with him. Why you kept coming back. Anyone else, you were afraid they would lie to your face during sex. They would tell you what they think you wanted to hear.

 

“You didn’t shave.” A growl of annoyance. His fingers glancing over the curls between your legs. He would yank your panties back up, force you on your knees, and thrust himself into your mouth. In part because he wanted to fuck something. In part because he didn’t want to hear anything you had to say.

 

The truth? There was something so relieving about it. The pain was cathartic. Later, when it was all over, you could cry and feel like less of an idiot. You would be able to ignore the truth that _you_ hated your own body. You would tell yourself that you were crying because _he_ hated it.

 

Kylo Ren liked to fuck you because he knew that you didn’t expect him to be nice. He knew you would take whatever it was he gave you. His cock. His tongue—this in many senses. His hands. Never fists. He would grip you, would leave his handprint on your shoulder as he held you down, one arm yanked backwards as he pounded into you from behind. You would take that and more.

 

“Why bother shaving if you’re going to wait to come here?” The red bumps irritated him. He would cruelly pinch those. Remove his gloves and press his nails against the flesh between them. The rivulets never fully breaking through the layers of your skin. No blood. “I don’t want your filthy blood dirtying my sheets.”

 

Eventually he did not allow you into his quarters at all. At some point, you were too disgusting for that. The relic left by Darth Vader would not be made to suffer by setting its sightless eyes on your body.

 

The horrible truth? One of the reasons you did return is that sometimes, some days, you were hoping he would kill you. You never told anyone this truth, and wondered if it was something he knew. Another thing that gave you reason to return? There was one occasion when Kylo Ren had allowed himself to drink. Inebriated, he had told you: you’re pretty when you’re mine. A tool. He thought his lightsaber was gorgeous, thought the melted mask of Vader was glorious. Truth was, he didn’t necessarily have the best taste in things.

 

You hated how clothes fit you. How some didn’t. That did not mean you enjoyed being naked. The ugly attire was always preferable to your naked body. With the exception of when you were naked with him. He had a tendency to insult your uniforms, even those that were worn by most of your co-workers. Your hair? Too oily. Not oily enough. Too short. Too long. Don’t you know how to shower properly?

 

That last one, that question posed before he dragged you into the nearest refresher, stripped you down, and washed you. It wasn’t romantic. Soap got into your eyes. Shampoo in your mouth. He messily shaved you, drawing blood on your legs. He blamed that on you. Said that you were not holding still enough even though you hadn’t moved at all. The truth was you liked seeing that someone as powerful and beautiful as he was, someone like that could be incompetent at times.

 

You had laughed when that thought passed in your head, and had been rewarded with three thick fingers down the back of your throat. Your head yanked back. Vomit rising only to be pressed downwards. You choked on it. Thought you would die. Thought: it was supposed to be his lightsaber.

 

You didn’t die though. Not that you were living. This was nothing more than existing. A tool at work. A tool in bed. He probably would have cum just as hard in a pillow or a sock. He was fond of his pillows and socks; more fond of them than he was of you, at the very least.

 

On the floor, on hands and knees, and facing away from him. He used his cowl as one would a collar and leash. A noose, tight, so tight around your throat. If you tilted your head back, you were able to breath. Just enough so that you did not pass out. His flaccid cock pressed to your ass. As he told you how disappointed he was with you, you could feel his dick twitch. If you tried to speak, he wouldn’t become aroused. Your whimpers did it for him. The occasional sob when he managed to find the ever-existent crack in your rusted armor shell. The head of his erection prodding at your outer lips. The red from where you had been cut when he shaved your legs stained the floor. And when he entered you, when he shoved his cock inside of you, there was a tiny trail of pinkish fluids that was pushed in and out of you with each thrust. You did not see it at first. Only when he had cum, when he spun you around, did you see it on his cock. Eyes dropping, down to your lap.

 

Neither of you said anything about it. That was something you appreciated as well. He knew when there was no point in saying anything.

 

The truth that was so hard for you to articulate was that you were so sad and you didn’t know why. Nothing was good enough. You did not need Kylo Ren to tell you that. He was a voice for your thoughts. People telling you to not say them about yourself. To have a better self-image, as though that was something that would magically happen with the snap of two fingers. The truth was, you adored Kylo Ren for saying the things he did about you because no one would ever dare to tell him to shut up about it. No one would correct him. Truth was, they probably only said it to you because they didn’t want to listen.

 

It was easy to take his cock in your mouth when you were already so used to swallowing your own words.

 

And it hurt to be aroused, orgasms were agonizing. There were a few times when that wasn’t true. Kylo made up for that with his comments, his reminders of just who and what you were.

 

You were just a body.

 

Truth? So was he.


End file.
